


The Departure

by vivianne_leigh



Category: BioShock, BioShock 2
Genre: Backstory, Character Study, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Male-Female Friendship, Past Character Death, Warm and Fuzzy Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-14
Updated: 2017-06-14
Packaged: 2018-11-14 00:26:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11196618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vivianne_leigh/pseuds/vivianne_leigh
Summary: Stuck in a slow-moving bathy for a few hours, Brigid and Charles talk about and bond over their respective pasts. Takes place directly after the events at the end of the Minerva's Den DLC.





	The Departure

It takes them hours to reach the surface.

 

If they had used a better model -a Stingray or a Tiger Shark- it would be much faster, but there had been no time to find one and so now they were stuck with _this_ instead- a tired old ‘52 Mako that groaned constantly and had long, angry scratches on its hull.

 

Both Tenenbaum and Porter were quiet; after the initial adrenaline and excitement of their escape had given way to crushing fatigue, neither had the energy to say much. Instead they watched the endless flow of water outside the porthole, shifting in fractions from the luminescent green of Rapture to the yawning darkness of the bathypelagic zone. Outside, the blackness was broken occasionally by the light of their vessel  reflecting on the wide eyes of the sea life drifting outside. It isn’t until a gulper eel sinuously glides past, milky eyes reflecting back at them that they finally break the silence.

 

Tenenbaum tries first; her mouth is gummy from leftover fear and her body is sore, but she manages to lift her head from where it rests against the curving wall to speak.

 

* * *

 

 

“Mister Porter.” When he doesn’t respond, still turned towards the thick glass window, she shifts in her seat and tries again. This time, he turns toward her, quietly, with all the silent blankness of an ancient monolith. She can’t see them, but she can feel his eyes on her- a sensation that feels as physical as being touched. It takes her a moment to remember what she wants, but once she does, she squirms fully upright and leans forward, gripping the seat on either side of her. “How do you feel?”

 

He makes a small helpless gesture with his hands, shoulders shrugging. She can only imagine what he’s thinking, how he’s feeling- rediscovering his identity, salvaging his life’s work, and escaping Rapture are enormous burdens- but when he makes the movement she cringes internally. The motion looks wrong with his suit, almost unnerving- Tenenbaum has almost forgotten that Big Daddies used to be men, normal and capable, so the expression seems wrong somehow. A wave of guilt swells in her, almost swallowing her whole; instead, she looks down at her lap, folding her hands. “Are you injured?” she prods, face towards her knees but her question aimed at him. Again, he uses his body to speak. His hands twitch up, palms facing her, before shaking side to side in a universal motion for no. At a loss for words, she nods, forcing herself to look up once more. “Ah.” Uncomfortable, she lets her eyes flit around the cramped space, taking everything in in rapid motions.

 

After a few moments of aimless searching, her gaze touches upon the lone suitcase next to her- though she had snapped it shut earlier, she picked it up again and undid the clasps, hoping for a distraction. To her disappointment, the contents were just as she had left them, with the vials of ADAM casting a warm red glow into the bathysphere. She had already begun sealing up the case when an idea struck her, and she opened it again. This time she pulled out a health pack and waved it at him, a spark of inspiration warming her expression.

 

"Mister Porter, you are mute, yes? The augmentation has altered your vocal cords." When he nodded, she bobbed her head eagerly and pressed on, seemingly unaware of how her excitement had transformed her. "We can fix that, now."

 

When Porter leaned closer, from either disbelief or delight, she pulled a scalpel from the suitcase with a flourish, gesturing to herself as she spoke. "In surgery - _your_ surgery, I mean- they did not destroy vocal cords, no. Instead they-" she tilted her jaw and pointed towards her throat, totally comfortable with the blade's proximity. "-severed the cords and healed them again, but for a different use. Artificial restructuring, do you understand?" Again, he nodded. "Good, good. Now, if I were to damage these cords again, and not restructure the growth- let it heal naturally- " another jab of the scalpel, this time dangerously close to the jugular. "Your vocal cords would repair themselves following your genes." Finished, she lowered her hands and watched him, eyes round as she anticipated his reply.  

 

* * *

 

 

Sitting on the flimsy cushions of the Mako, Porter gave himself time to think.

 

He was halfway through a long a list of detailed pros and cons when he realized he’d never wanted anything more in his entire life- no since he’d asked Pearl to marry him, at least. _Hell with it_ , he thought to himself, and gave Tenenbaum a thumbs up. At his consent, she broke into a pleased smile, perking up immediately. Looking at her, Porter could see the bright young woman who had first come to Rapture- her expression was _alive,_ and even with the heavy stress lines on her face and dark circles under her eyes he could feel the sheer joy of discovery radiating off of her. Twisting the scalpel expertly around her fingers, she stood up and approached him, mindful of the currents rocking the floor.

 

“Your helmet,” she said crisply, rolling up her frayed cardigan to the elbows. She had a precise, practiced air to her now, and even as the bathysphere roiled with currents her hands were steady. It was harder to prepare then he had expected: the helmet was an affair unto itself, with a complicated series of catches and clasps that needed to be released before it could be removed. After a few attempts, he struck gold and the helmet detached itself with a rush of pressurized air; the sudden change caught him off guard. Colors rushed back into his vision, and the pervasive damp air of his suit was replaced with the cool dryness of the bathysphere. Tenenbaum snapped into focus, no longer blurred around the edges, and he blinked a few times, startled by the difference.

Gingerly, she relieved him of the shell of steel and glass and set it on the floor behind her, the other hand already reaching for a first aid kit. Taking in a shallow breath, he let his eyes drift shut. Years ago he had learned that he did dealt best with invasive treatments by not looking; even after every horror he’d experienced in Rapture he felt it would be best. He was so deep in his thoughts that he jumped when Tenenbaum spoke again, closer then before. “I will tell you where the incision is to go, _und_ when.” Though his eyes were still closed he could see where she was in his mind’s eye- in front of him and slightly to the left. When she touched him, her hands were colder then he had expected, but she was gentle as she tapped a forefinger to the left of his adam's apple, outlining the incision site. “You are ready, yes?”

 

Before his nerve could abandon him he nodded, leaning back to expose his neck.

 

The cold kiss of the scalpel was his only warning before he felt himself split apart; a shockingly warm gush of blood ran ceaselessly from the wound, seeping under the collar of his gear. The pain electrified him, stronger then he had expected, and just as he was coming to grips with it the sensation _roared_ and sunk its teeth in, sending starbursts of pain across his eyelids. He could feel the scalpel slicing through deeper tissue, shearing its way through flesh with a mechanical perfection. The pain was so raw he felt himself gag, then tense- vaguely he could feel Tenenbaum’s hand grasping his shoulder, trying to steady him, but the sensation was fading fast: everything was, and even as he tried to will himself staying alert he felt himself slipping into blackness.

 

* * *

 

 

When his eyes finally open, Porter is reminded of when he got the flu as a boy- waking up huddled and trembling, nauseous and confused. It takes him a few seconds to understand he’s looking up, not ahead, and what he’d thought was the sun ( _finally_ ) was only ugly fluorescent lighting. Tenenbaum’s face drifts into view, drawn in concern.

 

“Mister Port- Charles?”

 

“Ngh. I- what?” Not his most eloquent to be sure, and his voice cracks audibly, but she breaks into a relieved grin nonetheless, pushing her sweaty bangs aside with fingers sticky with blood. “How does it feel?”

 

“I...” Emotion strains his already sensitive throat, and he swallows with a grimace before speaking again. “Thank you.”

 

Satisfied with his reply she nods at him before frowning with a sigh. “I’m sorry about the floor.”

 

Confused, he looks around: he’s sprawled on the ground of the bathysphere with Tenenbaum kneeling over him, instead of in his seat. He must have fallen out of the bench after losing consciousness.

 

Sensing his thoughts, Tenenbaum stands up and fiddles with her braid, her expression shifting from pleased to embarrassed. “I couldn’t pick you back up, you see.” She doesn’t notice, but as she toys with her hair streaks of his blood are staining the strands. Porter might not know her well enough but he can tell that something’s bothering her- as a distraction, he struggles to his feet and plops back onto the cheap upholstery, kneading the skin of his neck. The physical pain is gone but his body is still haunted by it, as insidious as a ghost- it isn’t until Tenenbaum notices his action and explains the sensation that he understands what’s happened. “Phantom pain.” She says simply, hands untangling from her hair to prod with the seams of her skirt. “It will not last long.” With that, they both fall back into watching the window as their vessel drifts upward.

 

“So Tenenbaum, how-” Porter can only get as far as the third word before he explodes into coughing, raw and harsh. Something bumps his arm, slightly: he looks down to see Tenenbaum nudging a Hop Up cola into his hands. He drinks it so fast he almost chokes- the soda is lukewarm, and almost flat, but his throat is crying for a drink so he takes it anyways. When he finishes, he clears his throat and tries again.

 

“How did you find yourself in this?”

 

She gives a tired chuckle at the question, crossing her legs. “Mister Porter...” She trailed off and crossed her arms, squaring her shoulders. “The war.”

Her words brought unwanted images to his mind: the acrid scent of smoke filling his lungs, the way the world itself seemed to be shaking apart with every bomb; the weight in his stomach when he saw the remains of his ( _their_ ) home. How he’d fallen to his knees and wept, grabbing at the still-warm ashes and wondering which handfuls belonged to Pearl.

 

“I understand.” Before he could stop himself, old anger bubbled up in him, as smothering and potent as tar. “If those German bastards hadn’t- they just-” cutting himself off, he shifted in his seat, still uncomfortable in his suit. “I know you understand what it was like, working against those monsters.”

 

There was a sickeningly ugly quiet.

 

Tenenbaum seemed to be folding into herself, pressing tightly against the wall of the bathysphere. Her already fair skin had turned white, and bones in her knuckles stood out under the skin.

 

The air seemed to be getting thicker. As she curled tighter and tighter into herself an unpleasant comprehension struck him. Ignoring the unwieldy texture of his gloves, Porter pinched the bridge of his nose and focused on breathing. “You **didn’t**.”

 

Tenenbaum flinched but said nothing. Instead her breathing sped up and she bit her lip, trembling with fear.

 

That was more then enough confirmation. Resentment swelled in his chest and it was all he could do to stay in his seat. Instead, he opened his mouth and let the poisonous words spill out of him. It was either that, or choke on them.

 

“Your people killed my wife.”

 

She jerked back at that, as if struck, and her eyes glazed over with tears.

 

“You _knew_ why she was dead and you just sat there. Making a fool of me.”

 

Still no reply. Instead, a tear fell, followed by another.

 

“Why did you take her, and not me? I was the codebreaker, I had the information. I was... Oh, god.” Voice cracking, he covered his face with a gloved hand. “Damn you.”

 

A tiny hiccup left her. Tenenbaum seemed to be collapsing in on herself, a melting figure held together only by threadbare clothes and seawater. For a while, there was only the sounds of weeping, heard only by the cold indifference of the ocean.

How long they sat there, overwhelmed with memories, was impossible to tell- the spell was only broken when Tenenbaum stood up, knees shaking, and rested a hand on Porter’s forearm. Repulsed, he pulled his arm away, not bothering to disguise the contempt in his voice. “ **Don’t**. You’re a killer.”

 

“Mister Porter... I-”

 

“No.”

 

“ _Shite_ , please-”

 

“ **What could you** **_possibly_ ** **say?** ” When she hesitated he turned away, moving his seat and resolutely avoiding her teary gaze.

 

“They made me.” the words were barely there, almost imagined, but when he heard her he found his pity getting the best of him. “They... they did?” Desperate, she nodded her agreement, face shiny with tears. “You weren’t a sympathizer?” “No, no, _nie_.” She lowered herself into the seat next to him, still weepy but better for his understanding. “My family... they were... the camps.”

 

Oh.   _Oh_.

 

* * *

 

 

Porter had seen the photos of those camps in his line of work. Even after he had retired from the war effort they hung in his mind, clinging to the edges of his memories as insistently as ticks on a dog. On bad nights, they came to him in his sleep- bald and sunken eyed, stomachs distended. Some were contorted in agony, bleeding stripes painted across their bodies, while others had flowers of skin and bone on their foreheads- bullet wounds, made execution style. There were a few who were just remains- charred bones wrapped in ash, infants just starting to decay.

 

(When the dreams were at their worst he would wake up with Pearl’s name on his lips, in a bed that was far too empty.)

 

He hadn’t made the connection earlier, but now he could see it on her- the starved, deprived look that the inmates shared, the hunted wariness. It was muted but there- Tenenbaum might have escaped the Nazis, but traces of the camp still hung about her, as invisible and pervasive as smoke. The anger drained out of him.

 

“I’m sorry.” He whispered. “I know what it’s like to lose someone to them.”

 

“I... They made me experiment on the prisoners. I pretend I didn’t care, but I remember them _all_. And then the girls... The splicers, everyone.” she trailed off, plucking idly at a loose thread in her skirt. “I have done many cruel things.” Exhausted by the words, she covered her mouth with both hands and sighed, turning away from the conversation. “They keep me up at night.”

 

Pausing, she turned to the window again, watching as the water shifted from indigo to cobalt blue. They were even closer to the surface, now.

 

“Tenenbaum. I understand-”

 

“No, you don’t.” Smiling thinly, she placed a thin hand on his knee, eyes still wet with tears. “You’re a good man. Even if you think not, yes? Pearl... would be proud.”

 

Despite his disbelief in her words, the thought of Pearl smiling down on him warmed him. In thanks, he offered her his own grin, equally battered. The water outside lightened to a sky blue, bright with promise.

 

“You know, Brigid. You’re not as irredeemable as you think.”

 

With that, they watched the bathysphere break the surface.

 

Together they slogged the last few yards to shore- him ridiculously tank like in his armor, her holding her sopping skirt with both hands.

 

Once they reached shore, they both stood still, taking in the sight before them. The air on the surface was infinitely sweeter then the recycled breeze in Rapture, so they took their time breathing it in. 

 

(And, if they each put a hand on the other’s shoulder, neither mentioned it.)


End file.
